A Red September
by casploding
Summary: Commissioner Gordon gets into trouble with the mob and must accept Batman's help if he wants to destroy the Falcone family. Meanwhile, the Joker prepares a party.
1. September 3rd

**Batman and associated characters are not my intellectual property.**

-September 3, 2011-

A red wash of evening light through dark clouds bathed Gotham in an insidious glow as the city's businesses shut down. Trains filled up, and homebound traffic sat and stank. Commissioner Gordon could see the whole scene out of his office window in the GCPD main headquarters. He looked out absent-mindedly, tired after a long day. He still had paperwork to do for the quarterly departmental review, and state PD were making a fuss about the batman. _As usual._

A knock on the door brought him out of his blank state of mind. He swiveled away from the window and back towards his black desk, adjusting his glasses. "Come in," he called.

The door opened. It was Danny Truman, a white guy with a combover and the most babyish face Gordon had ever seen on a grown man. He came into the room awkwardly, shuffling like he was afraid he'd rip a hole in his pants if he didn't move stiffly. "May I sit down?"

Gordon resisted the urge to sigh. "Go ahead, Truman. What is it now?"

Truman sat down. "It's about your quarterly expenses. The mayor thinks you should be focusing more on catching the vigilante."

"The batman." Gordon frowned. "I've told him repeatedly that the batman is just a vigilante, and if we actually create a taskforce specifically to hunt him down, that would be giving preference to a specific criminal. We're working on it, the batman will be found, but we don't need to bust open the piggy bank just to look good to the citizens. A thug in a mask is nothing special."

"Come on, Gordon. The mayor's not going to like hearing about this."

"Well, too bad. That's my position on the matter. We've got a whole violent crimes section who are working their hardest. I'd rather they stay on the case and get the glory when we catch him."

"Okay, Gordon, you don't have to get snippy."

Gordon glared. _Yeah, I do,_ he thought, but he didn't say it out loud. He didn't mind being the tough guy, not letting other parties who thought they knew better push him around. It was just the annoying cronies who got to him. Like Truman, who was twiddling his thumbs right in front of his desk. He got paid more to be an annoying messenger of the mayor than Gordon did to run the whole goddamn police department.

"I'm just saying. The mayor has constituents, publicity. You want him to be your ally."

Gordon took off his glasses briefly and rubbed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Truman, I don't have time for veiled threats. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." _Plus, _he added in his thoughts, _we both know the mayor's in bed with Falcone._

Truman stood up, nodding. "Well, I see you don't want to make time for the mayor's interests. A word of advice before I leave: if you don't listen to those with power, you're gonna be gone before you know it."

_You can shove your advice up your ass, Truman. _"I'll keep that in mind. Good night."

"Good night." Truman left, and Gordon stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk for a moment before deciding that it could wait until tomorrow. Barb needed a father. He packed a few sheets in his work bag and left the office.

**()()()**

Gordon briskly crossed the skywalk over the street, looking at the sluggish cars below. Traffic would be a bitch getting home, but it was better than nothing. Gordon didn't use the subway any more.

He got to the parking garage and descended the stairs to level 3. A few desk sergeants and receptionists were leaving for the night, getting into their cars and driving down to the street. Gordon hurried to his car and unlocked the door. He drove down the parking garage levels and merged into traffic. It took him twenty minutes to drive ten blocks to his home.

He parked on the curb and headed inside. "Barbara?"

No answer. _I wonder where she is._ Gordon took out his phone and called her number.

Three rings later, she picked up. _"Hey, Dad."_

"Where are you, Barb?" Gordon set down his workbag beside his desk and moved into the kitchen to get something to eat.

_"Oh, I'm at Julia's house. Sorry, I forgot to tell you we're having a sleepover."_

"Oh." Gordon got out some bread and lunchmeat and started making a sandwich.

_"Sorry, Dad. I forgot to ask you. Is it okay with you?"_

"I guess," he answered. "Just make sure you get your homework done, all right?"

_"Yeah, sure thing, Dad."_ He could perceive the edge of sarcasm in her voice, but he didn't really mind if she didn't do her homework. She was smart; she could probably do most of her assignment on the bus tomorrow morning.

"Just be safe, Barbara."

_"Yeah, Dad. I gotta go."_

"Okay. Bye."

_"Bye."_ She hung up.

Gordon sighed and pocketed his phone. Barbara was kind of a free spirit. Due to the nature of his job and the fact that his wife was gone, he couldn't maintain strict control over her. So he had relinquished most of his power over her as a parent, opting instead to be more of a friend or adviser.

He started eating his sandwich when he noticed a shadow move outside the window. He looked up. _What was that?_ He wouldn't have been surprised if there was an idiot teen trying to break into his house even though his car was parked right out front.

Gordon stood and walked to the door, peering out through the peephole. He couldn't see anything. Weird. He felt a strange sense of unease; he quietly opened his door and looked out the glass storm door. He didn't see anyone on his porch or on the front lawn.

All his instincts told him this was some sort of setup. He found himself grateful that Barbara wasn't home. He took one last look outside before turning to grab his service weapon over at the table.

Three men in black stood behind him, pointing pistol barrels at his face. "You're coming with us."


	2. September 3rd: Falcone

**Batman and associated characters are not my intellectual property.**

-September 3, 2011-

Part Two

The three men wore black ski masks. Not very imaginative, but it did the trick. "You don't know what you're doing, son," Gordon warned.

The one who spoke stepped forward. "Open the door and walk out to the curb. There'll be a black limo. Get in. If you try to run, you will die."

"I don't take orders from punks with masks," Gordon snarled. _Man, this is a really awful day._

"You do this time." The man shifted his weight to his back leg and motioned with the gun. "We know you have a daughter, Commissioner." Gordon clenched his teeth, his hand balling into a fist behind his back. _I'm outnumbered and outgunned,_ he thought. _I guess I have to comply._

Gordon turned around without a word and went out the door down the sidewalk. Once he reached the curb, a black limousine pulled up the street, and the back door opened. A man inside motioned for him to get into the car.

Gordon hesitated, but stepped into the vehicle. He didn't have much of a choice. He sat down inside and buckled his seatbelt. The interior of the car was dark, and he couldn't quite make out the face of the man sitting beside him. He only saw that the man wore a trilby and a trench coat. He couldn't make out the face of the driver through the rearview mirror, either. "Who are you?" he asked the man on his left. He got no answer out of him.

"I see you're not a chatty Kathy," Gordon muttered. _They haven't blindfolded me. That's unnerving. It means they don't care if I know where I'm going. Three reasons for that: it's an easily recognizable landmark, they're too powerful to care, or they plan on killing me._ That last thought lingered in the back of his mind for the rest of the ride.

Traffic had cleared up, so the drive was relatively quick. They drove straight downtown, to the business sector. Gordon had the distinct feeling he had been kidnapped by the mob. Falcone's tower stood in the middle of town, right across from the only slightly taller Wayne Enterprises skyscraper.

Sure enough, the car stopped at the curb in front of the steps at the bottom of the dark building. "Out," said the man in the hat. Gordon opened the door and stepped out of the limousine, looking up at the immense structure above him, a dark reflective colossus in the sky. He couldn't even see the top through the clouds.

The man in the hat walked around the car. "We're going inside," he told Gordon.

"I hadn't guessed," Gordon muttered under his breath. He hiked up the steps and through the revolving door at the base of the building. The man gestured to the private elevator to the left, swiping his keycard to gain access. After a short pause, the silver doors parted and Gordon stepped into the elevator.

He noticed a black camera watching him the top corner of the elevator compartment. He also noticed the kitschy jazz lounge elevator music.

The man in the hat stepped inside, pressing the top floor. The doors closed, and the elevator rose. _Falcone wants me in his pocket,_ Gordon thought. _He doesn't realize how stubborn I can be._

It felt good to be underestimated.

The elevator slowed to a halt, and with a chime, the doors opened. Gordon walked out into a waiting room decorated with furniture that looked like it had been imported straight from the 1960's. A petite blonde woman looked up from her computer, behind a spacious desk by a door labelled "Mr. Falcone."

"Go right in, Mr. Gordon. He's ready." Her voice was deep and silky, almost husky even, like a woman from an old smoking commercial. Her hair was even in a bob. The whole room stank of the past.

The man in the hat sat down on a sofa. "Do as the dame says," he told Gordon, settling down and picking up a magazine.

Gordon hesitated, but walked forward, aware that he had to make the right impression. If he came off as too much of a boy scout, he had no doubt Falcone would have a hit out on him the moment he left. But he didn't want to appear corrupt or weak. It was a balancing act. He wanted to gain Falcone's respect, but he didn't want to be on the payroll.

Gordon got to the door and turned the knob. It swung open without a sound on perfectly oiled hinges. The room beyond was remarkably modern, a marked contrast to the oldies lobby behind his back. Modern art hung on the wall, an array of original copies bought for hundreds of thousands of dollars each. As much as Gordon liked the aesthetic, he doubted a work in the style of orphism was really worth it. The walls were navy blue and the filing cabinets were the same color.

The wall in front of him was entirely a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Gotham's crowded urban vista. In front of the window sat a massive silver desk facing the door. Behind it in a black leather chair sat Carmine Falcone, owner of Masque Shipping Corporation and head of the Falcone family mob.

He was a thickset man with a double chin, a grey receding hairline, and a fat lip; in all honesty he was ugly, but powerful enough that you wouldn't dare say it, even behind his back.

"Hello, Police Commissioner. How good of you to drop by." His voice was deep and thick, with a slight Boston accent that reared its head every time he said a word with an 'R'.

"Dropping by? Is that what you'd call it?" Gordon asked. He snorted. "What do you want, Mr. Falcone?"

"Sit down," the man rumbled. He raised an arm and pointed to one of two comfortable leather chairs positioned in front of the desk.

Gordon took a few steps forward and sat in front of the mob boss' desk.

Falcone cleared his throat. "Mr. Gordon, I've just donated six thousand dollars to you publicly."

"What?" Gordon frowned. "I don't think I understand, Mr. Falcone."

"Call it a...token of friendship." Falcone's thick lip curled up into a smile that sent ripples through his unattractive face. Gordon knew the game, and he knew what Falcone was playing at. _Trying to blackmail me, huh?_

"I'll just have to return that money, then," he replied. He adjusted his wire-frame glasses. "Look, Mr. Falcone, we're no amateurs. You're a mobster and you're trying to bribe a police chief. I'm not going to be on the payroll, now or ever. If the mayor wants me to do him a favor, he's going to have to stop hiding behind your power and he's going to have to give me some good reasons why I should do anything for him." Gordon chuckled. "Plus, if you want a special taskforce hunting down the batman, why don't you get some of your own henchmen to do it, huh?"

Falcone's insidious smile shifted downward into an annoyed grimace. "I believe you understand that I can influence your career."

"You've got no dirt on me, Falcone. Don't try to play me without a ball." Gordon stood. "Are we done here?" After Falcone's curt nod, he pointed a thumb back at the door. "I'll let myself out."

There was no limo ride home. Gordon had to call a cab and wait at the curb until the dingy yellow car pulled up with squeaky brakes to take him back home. As he got into the taxi, he thought only one thing: _I think I might be in over my head._

Then again, he thought that most days since his wife had died. When the cab stopped at his house, he almost forgot to pay, he was so caught up in his thoughts. Among the myriad of them, swirling around in his head, one stood out: _I need to talk to the batman._


End file.
